Nyx

Nyx
 
There, where the Moon swells, I call
out to stars that unsettled you,
the basilisk that licks at the heel  
of that hound in you, rising  
and falling, out to the Moorlit night pooling in rivulets about your tired Mother,
the Mothers before  her
that brought you to land,
immortalised what is  
and what was and what would be -
this essence that allowed you each marking,
the browned, pressed flowers in your eyes.
I don't try to rematerialise you,
not here in these flatlands,
where I howl your heart song as a funeral piece
in the graveyard of all that we could have been
and worship what has bloomed in the aftermath,
the unique way we made earth,
fertile in our quiet, fleeting interweave,
became the black that bleeds on the skyline,
the ashen charcoal, the remnants
of an ending.